Never assume otherwise. You forget, I stopped them on the road under the guise of a highwayman and caught your brother unaware. He stood no chance against us.”
“There were three of you, and he was protecting your sister. If he hadna been with her, he would have easily taken you all,” Brodie challenged. He would not let his friend speak ill of his brother. Brock had always looked after him and their younger siblings, Rosalind and Aiden.
“I seek no quarrel with you,” Rafe cut in more amiably. “My point was to remind you that the unmarried ladies here in England treat marriage as a serious business. If that chit has marked you as hers, you had better watch your back.”
“I thank you for the warning.” Brodie swept his gaze over the ballroom with fresh eyes, searching for predators in pretty skirts.
Rafe continued his lesson. “Allow me to provide an example. You might think that an invitation to a dark alcove is a good idea. But unless you can be certain that the lady issuing the invitation is set on nothing more than a bit of fun, odds are you’re walking into a trap.” Rafe tapped his temple. “Best to keep a sharp eye until you are comfortable recognizing which ladies do not have marriage in mind. Widows are always good.” Rafe nodded toward a curvaceous brunette dancing nearby.
“Widows?” Brodie repeated. “They dinna mourn their husbands?”
Rafe threw his head back and laughed.
“Depends on the widow, old boy. Many widows here are young and starved for a decent man’s touch after having been married to men thirty or forty years their elder.”
Brodie didn’t like the sound of that. He knew that women most often married older men for practical or social reasons, but in Scotland the age difference usually did not exceed twenty years.
“Now spinsters are also an option, if they make it clear to you that they have given up on marriage. In fact, the ones with a bit of financial security often welcome romantic entanglements without marriage being offered. They have too much to lose if they marry.”
Brodie listened to Rafe explain the various types of English ladies, from bluestockings down to cyprians.
“Now, these bluestockings, do they actually wear blue stockings?” Brodie asked. He was still foxed from their drinking earlier, and he was quite enjoying listening to his friend lecture about women. He was so foxed, in fact, that his vision was a bit blurred at times.
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Rafe mused. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea where the name comes from. But you won’t get far with one of those. Take Lysandra Russell.” He discreetly pointed to a red-haired beauty in a green silk gown who had just been asked to dance.
“Aye, what of that one?” Brodie inquired curiously. He wouldn’t mind bedding that lass.
“Complete bluestocking. She’ll chatter to no end about science if you let her.”
“Have you?” Brodie teased his companion.
Rafe flashed him a devil-may-care-grin. “I might have . . . in the hopes of a kiss. Half an hour later, all I had was some rather useless knowledge about comets.”
“Comets?” That did mildly interest Brodie. While he was the most outgoing of his siblings, and by far the most scandalous, he did enjoy discussing things with women, at least when he wasn’t kissing them. In Scotland, he spent much of his time at Castle Kincade and rarely in town, which meant his choice of ladies, especially ones who were well educated, was far lower than it was in Edinburgh, London, or even Bath.
“Perhaps the lass would like me,” Brodie murmured as he watched her dance. She did have a pretty smile.
“Er . . . No. You must not have heard me say her name. She’s a Russell.”
Brodie still stared at him, having not a clue what the man was on about.
“As in Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester. One of Ashton’s friends?”
“Ah.” Brodie nodded. “One of the League of Rogues, is he?” Not that he was worried. English gentlemen were no match for Scots in a bout of fisticuffs.
Rafe nudged him. “Whatever you’re thinking about, forget it, my friend. Lucien won’t fight you with his fists if you compromise his beloved baby sister. They would likely only find pieces of you in the Thames. Best not to risk it over a bluestocking.”
“So, who am I to choose, then? I don’t see anyone left,” Brodie grumbled.
“Perhaps it’s time to quit this place. We made a good show here. We pleased the master of ceremonies and have